Chapter 1: Confessions Over a Stolen Dinner
The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet of his kitchen. I stared at the splatter of sauce on the ceramic, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.
Otis looked up from his steak, dark eyes fixing on me with that steady, knowing calm. He didn't speak. He just waited, the fork halfway to his mouth, his jaw working slowly as he chewed and watched me squirm.
I swallowed hard. "I, uh, I can't stop thinking about it. What you did. At my place."
The words came out rough, barely above a whisper. I kept my eyes on the table, on the grain of the wood, anywhere but his face. The admission hung in the air, raw and terrifying.
Otis set his fork down. The clink of metal on ceramic was soft, deliberate. "I know," he said, his voice low and easy. "Your eyes been telling me since that night. Every time you look at me, you think I don't see it, but I do."
My stomach clenched. I finally lifted my gaze to meet his, and the hunger there made my breath catch. He wasn't the playful friend who laughed off my awkwardness. He was someone else entirely.
"Come here," he said. It wasn't a request.
My legs moved before my brain caught up. I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the tile, and walked around the table until I stood beside him. He reached out, his fingers calloused and warm, and brushed against my chest, tracing the line of my collarbone through the thin fabric of my shirt.
"You been pretending with me all this time," he said, his thumb pressing lightly against my sternum. "Pretending you didn't want this. Pretending you didn't wanna feel my hands on you."
I couldn't breathe. His touch burned through the cotton, and my cock was already stirring in my jeans, thick and insistent. I hated how obvious I was.
"Tonight," he continued, his dark eyes locked on mine, "you don't have to pretend anymore."
He tugged at the hem of my shirt, pulling me closer until I was standing between his spread legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his massive frame. His hand slid down my chest, fingers splaying across my stomach before gripping my hip with a possessive squeeze.
"You nervous?" he asked, a hint of a smile curling his lips.
I nodded, barely managing to form the word. "Yeah."
"Good." His hand moved lower, palm pressing flat against the bulge straining in my jeans. I gasped, my hips involuntarily pressing into his touch. "You should be. I ain't gonna be gentle the whole time."
The words sent a jolt straight to my dick. I was painfully hard now, the denim tight against me, and he could feel every inch of it through the fabric. His grin widened.
"Look at you," he murmured, squeezing me through the jeans. "So fucking eager. And here I been thinking you was some innocent little thing."
"I told you," I said, my voice shaky, "I haven't done this much."
"I know." He released me and stood, towering over me by a solid foot. His chest blocked out the kitchen light, casting me in his shadow. "But you're gonna learn tonight. And you're gonna take everything I give you."
His hand gripped the back of my neck, tugging me flush against him. I gasped at the contact, the hard wall of his chest pressing against me, his thick thighs brushing mine. He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"You want this?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
I nodded, barely able to speak. "Yes."
He bent down, his lips brushing against my ear. "Then get on your knees."